The day was perfect, slightly overcast but not rainy, warm but not hot, a slight breeze blowing. The small country churchyard surrounded a tiny church, tombstones dotting the ground like they had been planted from seeds that had been scattered, both of which were surrounded by farmland and woods as far as the eye could see. My uncle had dug the "grave" such that it was, the day before, and it sat, covered with plywood so no kids fell in - not that it would have mattered much, it was only 2 feet deep. Someone had spread a quilt out next to the headstone, and the children ran and played amongst the tombstones scattered about the yard, skipping and playing and stopping to smell the flowers that decorated some of the graves.
We met the preacher, a 90 year old artifact from a different time. He had the weathered, cracked, yet oddly smooth skin of all the other older people from that town, a face worn by the ravages of sun, wind, and hard work. We had never met him, he had never met our family, but the town itself was so tiny and the people from the town so much alike that after 2 hours it felt like he'd known all of us a lifetime.
A card table was set up next to the headstone, and it held an oak box containing my grandfather's ashes, emblazoned with the brass nameplate that had announced his name to all who visited his workplace for 40 some-odd years, and containing a picture of him and my grandmother on their 50th wedding anniversary, taken some ten years ago. A couple of vases of flowers flanked the oak box. About 15 folding chairs were set out; they were all taken, mostly by the friends of my grandfather and his sister, who still lives in the same small town where my grandfather was born and raised.
My aunt sang, the preacher spoke a few words, but oddly enough, not "preachy," just a short message of comfort for those who had gathered. Another song was played on a cd player, Jo Dee Messina's Heaven Was Needing A Hero (grab tissues if you go to listen), and then my uncle and one of my grandfather's best friends, who'd known him since boyhood, each got up and told a story about my grandfather, both struggling with their emotions but making it through. Then we just kind of...sat. And felt my grandfather's presence among us.
We came back later to bury the waterproof box containing some of my grandfather's ashes, a portrait of my grandparents, and a whole host of other pictures and letters, some photos, some drawn by the children. My grandfather's wish was to have some place that people could visit, some tangible thing that would show "that we existed on this earth." My grandmother had donated her body to science, and he chose to be cremated, so he wanted the picture buried in the cemetary so people could go there and remember them.
The churchyard cemetary isn't maintained by the church - there isn't money to do so, so the families have to take of things themselves. The children insisted on helping bury the box, so it took a while to cover it, despite its small size. Afterward, we took the time to wander around the cemetary, clearing weeds off some headstones, finding old ancestors from the civil war and before. The sun came out as we strolled through the grass, as though the heavens were smiling down on us.
Later, we took the rest of my grandfather's ashes and scattered them on his land, now our land, land that he loved and returned to again and again. My uncle got an ATV and took turns driving all of us all around the land, most of it farmed but some of it wooded and unruly. We picked at the soybeans growing there, at the plants trying to climb out of the woods into the fields. We breathed fresh, clean air, and relaxed, and understood. Above all, we felt my grandfather's presence all around.
BigDaddyFish commented at one point how he kept expecting my grandfather to come driving up the lane to the churchyard, how he could feel him there. I told him my grandfather wouldn't have driven, he would have run, just as he did in his boyhood, run up and down the dirt roads with his boyhood pals Jack and Scottie. I don't know if it was that that soil, that land formed him, was so much a part of him, or if it was just that his spirit was there, but it was palpable.
Many times over the years my grandfather was asked how much his land was worth, and his answer was, "Well, it's in probably the most worthless part of the country. I guess it's worth whatever you can get anyone to give you for it." For worthless land, he held it dear. My grandfather is now home, returned to the earth on his worthless land, worth all its area in gold.
Beautiful, just beautiful...
Posted by: Angi | August 27, 2007 at 04:51 PM